


A Baggins of Bag End

by MalthirielGreenleaf



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Annoying wizards, Arrogant Thorin, Dwarves, F/M, Flashbacks, Het, Non-Canon Relationship, Sort of sticks to the plot, Thilbo, When I feel like it, Yet another Bilba, at your service, bagginshield, how about dwelves?, non-slash, possible dwobbits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-04 17:42:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1787554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalthirielGreenleaf/pseuds/MalthirielGreenleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilba Baggins wanted nothing more than to live a quiet life in her comfortable hobbit hole of Bag End. But when Gandalf arrives, everything changes and she finds her furry feet sweeping her off on an Adventure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One - THORIN

**Author's Note:**

> I have recently been introduced to the concept of a female Bilbo, and I loved it so much that I decided I would have to try and write my own. I say 'try' because I have a feeling that I have simply mashed the fics I have read into one and tweaked it a little. Thank you so much for reading this, it's very poorly written and I should probably go back and edit it. I'll get around to it... eventually. This fanfic is most definitely not canon! For starters, Bilbo is now female (enter Bilba) and the three sons of Durin survive. Yay! I have finally finished typing up this chapter, hopefully I'll have the next one up within the week! Enjoy, and please leave me with any comments you may have - suggestions, reviews, etc. A huge thank-you to Laurynm24, Belelaith, and curiousdreamweaver, along with four guests, who left me kudos.

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. This hobbit was a very well-to-do hobbit, and her name was Baggins. The Bagginses had lived in the neighbourhood of the Hill for a time a time out of mind, and people considered them very respectable, not only because most of them were rich, but also because they never had any adventures or did anything unexpected: you could tell what a Baggins would say on any question without the bother of asking her. This is the story of how a Baggins had an adventure and found herself doing and saying things altogether unexpected. She may have lost the neighbours’ respect, but she gained - well, you will see whether she gained anything in the end.

One sunny morning, long ago in the quiet of the world, Bilba Baggins was standing at her front door, enjoying the fresh air, when Gandalf came by. She didn’t recognise him, of course. She saw only and old man with a staff and a pointed hat.

“Good morning,”Bilba said pleasantly. She meant it - the day was bright and clear, her garden was growing nicely and she had just eaten an excellent breakfast. The old man simply stared at her from under bushy eyebrows. His gaze making her a little uncomfortable, Bilba burst out (somewhat rudely) “Do I know you?”

He cleared his throat and continued to stare at her. “You know my name, of course, although you do not remember that I belong to it. I am Gandalf.”

Bilba flushed, torn between delight and embarrassment. While Gandalf had been a very dear friend of her mother’s, she had no desire to be gossipped about by her neighbours and Gandalf’s visit would definitely be a subject of gossip. As a rule, hobbits were extremely polite and welcoming, however not even the most well-mannered hobbit would be able to resist passing on such a juicy morsel. Gandalf was famous for his fireworks and thrilling tales, but he was equally well-known for convincing many hobbit-lads and hobbit-lasses to go on adventures and vanish into the blue. Bilba was a Baggins of Bag End and had no intention of letting Gandalf ruin her reputation for wanting nothing to do with adventures.

Moments later, she was scrambling to shut her beautiful, round green front door, calling over her shoulder for him to come to tea on Wednesday. Bilba leaned against the door, beginning to feel that she had escaped adventures rather well.

 

Gandalf, however, had other ideas.

 

 

* * *

 

 

On Wednesday, Bilba had quite forgotten about Gandalf coming for tea and had just settled down to a nice little meal of beautifully fresh fish. Smiling contentedly, she began to drizzle lemon juice over her food when something pounded on her door. That Something didn’t knock - it literally pounded. Bilba hastily untucked her napkin and scurried for the door, retying the belt of her dressing-gown, ready to apologise to Gandalf. The door swung open to reveal one very large and imposing dwarf - his bald head was inked with bold geometrical patterns and his face sprouted an appalling amount of hair. “Dwalin, at your service,” he introduced himself, striding into her hole without as much as a by-your-leave. Bilba hastily shut the door and followed the dwarf through to the parlour. He was already seated and just finishing off her fish. As she watched in disbelief, he stuffed the entire fish-head into his mouth and chewed with relish. “Very good, this. Is there any more?” he demanded.

Bilba was just bringing him some more cakes when her door-bell jingled. Surely it was Gandalf this time? It was with a sinking feeling in her stomach that she opened her door to reveal a second dwarf. This one was smaller and less threatening than Dwalin, and had at least had the decency to ring her bell, rather than pound on her door. With a grandfatherly smile, he introduced himself as Balin, with the usual “At your service.” Bilba watched numbly as he moved to greet Dwalin. “Evening, brother,” he chuckled. “Why, you’re shorter and wider than last we met!” Dwalin grinned, casually removing his hand from inside her cookie jar. “Wider, not shorter. And sharp enough for both of us,” Balin countered. They took hold of each other’s arms - then headbutted each other. Hard. It made Bilba’s own head ache to look at it. “That might explain a few things” she muttered under her breath. No doubt the two of them had damaged their brains by bashing them so often and had mistaken her house for some other meetingplace. Bilba screwed up her courage and opened her mouth to politely suggest that they were in fact in the wrong house, when the bell chimed yet again.

For the first time that evening, Bilba didn’t regret opening her front door, for the two dwarves bowing and offering their service to her were very, very good-looking. In fact, they were so good-looking that if she hadn’t been so rattled by the evening’s events, she would probably have made a fool of herself and said something really stupid. Bilba just managed to clamp her jaw shut on the empty-headed drivel about to spill out of her mouth and simply curtsied instead. It was safer that way. The blonde one - Fíli - dumped his weapons (which he must have removed before ringing the bell, at least someone had some manners) into her arms. Bilba scowled and prepared to scold him, but Kíli was cleaning off his boots on her mother’s glory box. It looked like they had no more manners than the rest, after all! Bilba felt more frustrated, and indeed angrier, than she had ever felt in her life. Not only had four dwarves invaded her house and tracked mud all over the carpet, one had eaten her dinner and emptied her cookie jar and she doubted she would ever get her mother’s glory box clean again! Then, as the bell jingled with all its might, as though some naughty hobbit-lad was trying to pull it off, she snapped.

Muttering curses under her breath that would have scandalised any hobbit within earshot, she jerked the door open. Nothing in her life could have ever prepared her for the eight dwarves collapsing onto her doormat, nor the highly amused wizard leaning on his staff behind them. “Gandalf.” she hissed, pouring all her annoyance into that one word. Only Gandalf would have had the cheek to invite twelve dwarves - twelve of them! - to tea without first asking or even informing the host. Bilba sniffed and returned her attention to the dwarves. Gandalf could wait. First, she had to keep the dwarves from destroying her house.

That was easier said than done. They cleared out her pantry, rearranged her furniture and somehow managed to blow the plumbing in the guest toilet. It was the last straw when a red-headed dwarf attempted to use one of her doilies as a dishcloth while several of them began bashing her cutlery together. Honestly, were they all barbarians? “Can you not do that? You’ll blunt them!” she cried, in her panic forgetting that dwarves were master craftsmen and would know better than that. Although, they had been acting like savages all evening - one only had to look at the bathroom to see (and smell) just how uncivilised they were! The dwarf with the outlandish hat raised his eyebrows at the others. “ Oh, did you hear that, lads?! She says we'll blunt the knives!” This seemed to be the cue for Kíli to leap up and begin singing in a surprisingly deep and tuneful voice that definitely did not send shivers down her spine.

_“Blunt the knives, bend the forks!_

_Smash the bottles and burn the corks!_

_Chip the glasses and crack the plates!_

_That's what Bilbo Baggins hates_

_Cut the cloth and trail the fat!_

_Leave the bones on the bedroom mat!_

_Pour the milk on the pantry floor!_

_Splash the wine on every door!_

_Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl;_

_Pound them up with a thumping pole;_

_And when you've finished, if they are whole,_

_Send them down the hall to roll!_

_That's what Bilba Baggins hates!”_

Bilba cowered against the wall as her mother’s best Westfarthing pottery flew around the room. Summoning up her courage, she strode forward to rescue her dishes only to find them neatly stacked on the table, in front of the massive dwarf with the ginger beard. Gandalf seemed much too amused by her expression than was proper, she thought. She was sick of the lot of them - especially that meddling wizard! Spreading her glare around all of them, she stormed off down the hall, ignoring their joking pleas for her to come back. She stalked through her front door, not certain where she was going. Anywhere was better than that madhouse! She slammed into something and bounced back, dazed.

A dwarf taller than the rest towered above her, his pale blue eyes just as shocked as she felt. “Another one?” she demanded, recovering from her shock and ignoring the butterflies dancing in her stomach. She had just met him, for goodness’ sake! She guessed he was the leader, for his clothing, while travel-worn, seemed of better quality than the rest and he wore authority like - well, he wore it like it was part of his fur coat. She realised she was staring but didn’t bother to apologise - he had been staring at her that whole time, his sharp eyes calculating. “Is this the burglar?” he asked, glancing at Gandalf. The frustration of the evening seemed to catch up with her all at once. “I have never stolen a thing in my life, Master Dwarf,” she said icily, “nor do I appreciate you talking about me as though I’m not even here.”

A chorus of intaken breaths sounded behind her, and even the fur-wearing dwarf seemed a little taken aback. Not giving him room to speak, she pressed on. “I also do not appreciate having thirteen dwarves descend upon me unannounced! Do you have any idea of what they have done to my house?” She was beginning to rather enjoy the flabbergasted expression on the dwarf’s face. She spun around, one hand on her hip and the other raised to point a finger at that cursed wizard. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten you, either,” she warned him. “You and I will have words later.” She patted him on the cheek as she walked back inside, the dwarves immediately shifting to let her through, all of them looking at her apprehensively as though she’d grown an extra head. All in all, she was feeling very good about herself as she settled in for a well-deserved cup of tea. Her mother would have been proud.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bilba was beginning to feel quite comfortable and sleepy after drinking her way through an entire pot of tea. With the return of her composure, however, came a rather uncomfortable feeling. True, those dwarves had simply barged in on her without so much as a by-your-leave, but knowing Gandalf it was entirely possible that he had led them to believe that she knew they were coming. Without giving herself time to think, Bilba hurried over to the door and peered outside. Her front garden was still and empty, as was the lane beyond. Almost entirely empty, she amended. After her eyes had adjusted to the dim evening, she noticed two forms leaning on her  gate and smoking. She crept closer, curious as to what Gandalf and the fur-wearing dwarf were talking about. “ - understandable she is somewhat upset,” Gandalf commented. The dwarf snorted. “If she gets ‘upset’ like that in the Wild, she will put the whole Company at risk - not to mention that she looks more like a grocer than a burglar,” his deep bass rumbled. “an excitable little thing like her will only bring orcs down on us and, unless we have the greatest of good fortune, probably wake the Dragon too.”

Bilba had heard enough. She had originally intended to apologise for her rudeness, but her previous anger had risen again. “Grocer, eh?” she thought fiercely. “Excuse me, Mister Gandalf, Mister Dwarf,” she said sweetly, dropping them both a curtsey. Gandalf’s eyebrows shot up and the dwarf’s head snapped around to face her, his eyes wide with surprise. “I just wanted to extend my hospitality to you all, as I doubt any of my neighbours will appreciate thirteen dwarves and a wizard turning up on their doorstep. It  can give one a shock, after all.” If the dwarf had looked surprised before, his face was now a stony wall of shock. Maybe the wizard would think before dumping over a dozen dwarves on some unsuspecting hobbit, and the dwarf… grocer, indeed! The dwarf hooted twice and before you could say ‘dwarf’ all twelve of them had appeared in a line behind their leader. Bilba turned and led the way inside, determined to show those dwarves what proper manners were. She knew it was too much to hope for them to put them into practice, though, and if the fur-wearing one acted any less overbearingly, she would eat Bofur’s ridiculous hat. She knew better than to hope for any change in the wizard.

Gandalf, predictably, strode in as though he had every right to be there, but the leader paused at the porch and bowed. “Thorin Oakenshield, at your service,” he said solemnly. “Bil-Bilba Baggins at yours and your family’s,” she responded, strangely aware that he was a _very_ good-looking dwarf, (she had only just met him, for goodness’ sake!) and stepped aside to let him in.  Each of the twelve dwarves filed through with expressions that ranged between slight discomfort (Dwalin) and outright embarrassment (Bofur). Fíli and Kíli, the youngest-looking dwarves, were exceptionally guilty-looking and she was hard-put not to laugh at their woebegone expressions - they looked like faunts caught with their hands in the cookie jar! Bilba swung the door shut after them and rested her forehead against its cool wood. How was she going to get hold of Bofur’s hat?

 

 


	2. Chapter Two - Thorin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Co. eat a lot, Thorin tries to be sneaky but Bilba is too good for him, and Bilba is treated to a first-hand experience of Thorin's #Majestic Brooding (TM)   
> (Followers of Oakentoons will understand)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have finally finished typing up this chapter! I am so sorry for the wait, and from now on I will not be uploading in dribs and drabs but a whole chapter at a time. Updates may slow to once a month, however, as I hate typing these things up! I'm just a horrible procrastinator, but please bear with me.   
> A note: my italics don't show up, so sorry about that. And I made up Rili as Dis' husband, I hope you don't mind. :)   
> Please enjoy this long-awaited complete Chapter 2!

Thorin eyed the hobbit interestedly from where he sat beside the fire. She seemed to have settled into her role as hostess and was happily puttering around her kitchen, directing his dwarves as they attempted to cook something without setting her house on fire. He shook his head. After inviting them all in again and ushering them into the best seats in front of the fire, she had returned to the kitchen, trailing mutters about the apparently pitiful amount of food she had ready to feed them. Thorin listened, bemused. The Company had described the meal as nothing short of a feast, yet the hobbit was somehow embarrassed by the supposedly ‘small’ meal they had eaten already. She didn’t seem to care that she hadn’t actually fed them - Dwalin had admitted to simply walking in and eating her meal, while Balin had told him that they had cleaned out her pantry very thoroughly. Luckily for all involved, the hobbit kept a second pantry at the other end of her hobbit-hole - this one even fuller than the first. She’d begun cooking and, one by one, the dwarves had trickled in to help until it was only Balin and Thorin left beside the fire, along with Gandalf. Casting a wary eye on Gandalf, who seemed to have fallen fast asleep in the opposite corner of the room, Balin leaned in close to Thorin. “Have you made your decision about the lass yet?” Balin whispered. “I will not bring such a defenseless little halfling lass, no matter what dire consequences the wizard predicts,” Thorin responded, just as quietly but firmly. “I do not like leading the twelve of you into danger, but at least all of you are well able to defend yourselves, even if Ori’s idea of a weapon is a slingshot. Miss Baggins is used to the comforts of home and would no doubt complain about the hardness of travel and the length of the journey to Erebor. That’s at best - at worst, she’ll get herself - and us - killed.”

Their conversation was cut short as the burgler appeared around the corner. “Food’s ready” she announced cheerfully. Their apology had cheered her up immensely and set her to cooking for them. Thorin had to admit that the amount of food she had set out was quite impressive - he doubted Bombur would be able to manage such a feat. He had never seen so much food since leaving Erebor - the table was piled high with food, and there was more stacked on a sideboard. His mouth watered and he could barely restrain himself long enough to collect a plate and some cutlery. From the way the rest of the Company attacked the food, one wouldn’t have known they had already eaten.

At last they all sat back with contented sighs, nursing their pipes and tankards of ale - all except the hobbit. Thorin guessed that females of their kind mustn’t smoke, as he had seen plenty of male hobbits sitting out on their porch with a pipeful of Old Toby. He hastily snapped his mind to attention as Gandalf produced a simply wrought iron key. He recognised it immediately, even though the last time he had seen it, it was hanging from a chain around his father’s neck. Thráin had refused to tell him what it was, and now he knew. “How came you by this?” he breathed, so shaken he mixed up his words. For his father to have given Gandalf the key, there must have been no hope of his return. Thorin glanced around the table. Each of the Company was gazing at the map and key with a deep and powerful longing, one that could only be understood by another who felt it. His gaze drifted to the hobbit. Her rapt expression as she stared at the two items would have been amusing if it didn’t give him an uncomfortable feeling that the quest was now hers, too.

That stubborn little thought refused to go away. It nagged at him for the remainder of the night. It seemed that wherever he went, her brown eyes were focused on him, always watching. He knew they needed a burglar - there was only a fool’s hope of success with a burglar, but without one they were doomed - but he knew with grim certainty that Miss Bilba Baggins of the Shire was not suitable for the job. As Dwalin had put it earlier that evening the wild was no place for gentle folk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves. Unless Gandalf procured a new, male burglar, their quest was over before it had even begun.  

Scarcely an hour after Gandalf had given him the key, Thorin was provided with a perfect example of why the hobbit would do more harm than good on this venture. He had returned to his seat beside the fire, a tankard of ale in one hand and his pipe in the other. He felt more comfortable than he had in a long time. That feeling of comfort abruptly vanished when the halfling hesitantly settled in the armchair opposite him. Her previous assurance was gone, replaced by anxiety. Thorin watched her in amusement over the rim of his tankard as she worried at her lower lip with her teeth, obviously unsure of how to begin. “Why do you need a burglar?” she burst out at last. His eyebrows shot up. “Have you not listened to anything we have said all evening?” he asked incredulously. She blushed. “I have, but only bits and pieces. It’s all so confusing and no-one has actually said, it’s just assumed that everyone knows why we have to sneak into that mountain!” she exclaimed, quickly ducking her head to examine her hands as she waited for him to reply. He caught Bofur’s eye and waved him over. He couldn’t think of any way to put it that wouldn’t make her scream, faint, burst into tears or - Mahal have mercy on him - do all three. Bofur’s easy, joking manner would keep the hobbit from over-reacting. He had been scolded for being too blunt enough times to know he would only make a mess of things.

As he’d thought, Bofur’s first few comments had the lass giggling and eager for more - and then he mentioned fire-breath and razor-sharp fangs. She didn’t look quite so excited anymore, which was a relief. Bofur winked at Thorin and headed back over to his brother and cousin but stopped in his tracks as the hobbit, as casually as if she was ordering a pound of potatoes, asked to see the contract. Balin, their legal-dwarf, waited for Thorin’s nod before handing her a sizeable wad of paper and quickly summarising its contents. The halfling unfolded it and began scanning its contents interestedly, muttering to herself all the while. About two paragraphs after most readers’ eyes would have glazed over, she glanced up in shock. “Incineration?!” she squeaked. Thorin shot a desperate look at Bofur. “Oh, aye. He'll melt the flesh off your bones in the blink of an eye.Think furnace, with wings!” he told her cheerfully. Thorin could happily have throttled him as the girl paled. “Flash of light, searing pain, then poof, you're nothing more than a pile of ash,” Bofur added helpfully. To Thorin’s disgust, she fainted. She fainted. Shooting yet another furious glare at the toymaker - his eyeballs ached from the strain of so many in so short a space of time - he and Gandalf lifted her into the overstuffed armchair close to the fireplace. Thorin then strode over to Bofur. “Very tactful, blockhead,” he told him in khuzdul (that’s only a rough approximation of what he said because the actual translation would probably set your eyeballs on fire. I’ve already lost a pair of glasses from looking up translations.). Bofur grinned that truly insufferable grin of his. “I try.”

 

* * *

 

Breakfast that morning was prepared by Bombur, as none of them were inclined to wake the hobbit. Thorin privately admitted that his primary reason for not wishing to wake her was so that she could not come with them. She may think she was ready for a journey like this, but it was likely no more than a passing fancy. He didn’t want her, didn’t need her, no matter what Gandalf said. Barely able to restrain a sigh of relief that the hobbit was apparently still asleep, Thorin stacked his dishes beside the sink and the others did likewise. “It is time for us to be gone,” he announced and the others obediently scooped up their belongings. “What about Bilba?” Kíli asked. Thorin simply stared at his nephew. “What about her?” he said evenly. Kíli looked as though he wanted to say more, but Fíli’s elbow to the ribs shut him up quickly enough.

They were soon on their way without further pointless questions, which was a benefit for all involved, as Thorin’s temper stretched thin with any delay. Following the advice of the wizard, they had left their baggage with the ponies at an inn beside the river, called the Green Dragon. “Adventurous name for a hobbit establishment, eh?” Bofur had commented when they first saw it, and Thorin couldn’t help but agree. According to Gandalf - and the hobbit herself - hobbits immensely disliked even the thought of going on adventures, and yet they seemed to enjoy tales of them well enough! Hobbits were indeed a very strange people, full of all sorts of contradictions.

 

* * *

 

After a short rest, spent gathering provisions, they were ready to set out. Thorin couldn’t hide his relief that they were still only thirteen - and a wizard. As their ponies plodded steadily onwards he allowed himself a smile. They were on their way at last, armed with a map and a key. His good mood vanished as a tiny figure sprinted out from a strand of trees, waving something and calling out for them to stop. Thorin toyed with the idea of simply carrying on without her, as she would eventually fall behind, but the choice was taken from him when the Company halted for her to catch up. “I did it, I signed it!” she panted, doubled over with one hand on her thighs as the other feebly proffered the paper. In stark contrast to the pretty, fussy little dress she had worn when they first met her, she wore a waistcoat, coat and trousers and a leather pack was slung over her shoulders. Thorin grudgingly conceeded that she at least knew how to dress for a long journey such as this, and the surprisingly small amount of luggage she carried with her implied that she had travelled before.

Balin carefully examined the contract, taking long enough for the hobbit to recover and fidget nervously. “It all seems to be in order,” he commented, glancing at Thorin. Interpreting Thorin’s glare as a sign that he was in no mood to speak to her, he welcomed her formally to their party. “Welcome Mistress Baggins, to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.” Thorin turned to his nephews. “Get her on a pony,” he ordered curtly, turning back to the front as they hoisted the protesting hobbit onto their pack-pony, Myrtle.

 

* * *

 

Thorin couldn’t believe how badly the hobbit rode. She sat stiffly in the saddle, her arms stretched rigidly in front of her as if to keep the reins as far away from her as possible. She looked as though she was about to slide of at any moment, which set his teeth on edge, and yet he couldn’t stop looking. It was as though there was a string fastening him to her, compelling him to glance back at her every few moments. Something about her intrigued him, he wanted to understand why a respectable hobbit like her would suddenly decide to go haring off on an adventure with a band of dwarves she didn’t know and a dragon waiting at the end. It made no sense.

“Stop!” the hobbit suddenly cried, waving one arm frantically as the other patted her pockets. Every dwarf stirred uneasily, glancing round in search of whatever had startled the hobbit, their hands gripping their weapons. “What is it, lass?” Balin asked kindly. “I forgot my handkerchief, we have to turn back!” she exclaimed shrilly. Thorin glanced at Dwalin in disbelief. Surely he couldn’t have heard what he thought he’d heard? She wanted to turn back for a handkerchief, of all things? Again, Bofur leapt to the rescue, tearing a strip of cloth from his shirt and tossing it to the hobbit. “There you go, lass!” he called cheerily. The others burst into chuckles as the hobbit wrinkled her nose at the cloth she held at arm’s length. Thorin turned back to the front, his suspicions confirmed: she would not last in the Wild and would be nothing but a burden. If the Wizard was so set on going to his precious girl, then he could take the girl with him and rid them of the inconvenience. Thorin refused to feel guilty about his uncharitable thoughts - it was for her good as well as theirs, after all. She would thank them for the chance to return to her precious Shire.

 

* * *

 

When they halted to make camp at dusk, the hobbit was drooping and all but asleep in the saddle. She was clearly unused to travelling by pony - and she had only sat through one day of it! Thorin carefully avoided her while they set up camp, much as he had done throughout the day. He had the feeling he would only snap at her whenever she was in range, which would only lead to some kind of scene. He’d had several uncomfortable visions of possible scenarios: the hobbit losing her temper, running away by herself and getting eaten by wargs, screaming and bringing orcs down on them… each was more terrifying than the least. The most vivid - and frightening - had been the one when she’d burst into tears. Females were bad enough, but the thought of a hysterical, crying female was enough to scare the battle-hardened dwarf prince into keeping his distance. It seemed that most of the company felt the same way - excluding Bofur and his nephews, which was hardly surprising. Fíli and Kíli were very young and ignorant, after all - the only female they’d spent much time with was their mother - and Bofur… well, Bofur, being Bofur, treated everyone the same.

It was while dinner was cooking, and the hobbit was surreptitiously feeding Myrtle an apple, that his nephews proved just how young they were. Everyone except Thorin and the hobbit - Gandalf had disappeared, as usual - was clustered around the fire, relaxing after the day’s travel. Thorin stood at the edge of the camp, gazing out into the night. The doubts that already plagued him had intensified with the addition of the hobbit to the Company. What right did he have to lead these twelve brave dwarves and one naive hobbit on a journey that would almost certainly end in death? He especially regretted the inclusion of Fíli, Kíli and Ori. They were much too young to be risking their lives on a quest such as this, and the hobbit… she belonged back in her cosy hobbit-hole, not following a leader who could not guarantee he would return her home safely.

A familiar howl shattered the still evening, followed by hooting noises. “Wh-what was that?” the hobbit demanded. Her eyes were wide, her face pale and her tiny frame had drawn in on itself at the first sound. “Orcs, lass,” Bofur said solemnly, his ever-present grin absent for now. “Orcs?” she repeated incredulously. Fíli eyed her meaningfully. “They strike in the middle of the night, quick and quiet. No screams, just lots of blood,” Kíli explained. It shouldn’t have been possible to look even more afraid, but the hobbit managed. She seemed about ready to pass out from fear, but the sniggering heirs of Durin didn’t seem to have noticed. Things had gone far enough.

“Think a night raid by orcs is a joke, do you?” he said roughly, his voice sharp with disappointment. His nephews looked away, the way they always did when he had cause to be angry or disappointed with them. It had often caught them out in the past and generally amused him, but not this time. Their own father, uncle and great-grandfather had been murdered by the foul creatures and yet they joked about an attack. “We didn’t mean anything by it,” Kíli muttered and Thorin fought the urge to clout his thoughtless nephews’ heads. “I know you didn’t. You know nothing of the world.” he snapped, pacing back to his prior position. He carefully loosened the axe in his belt-loop, ready in case any orc-scum did attack. This time, he would be ready.

The silence stretched uncomfortably. Thorin could feel their gazes on his back but ignored them. What did they know? Only Balin and Dwalin had been at Moria and had seen the pale orc, Azog, decapitate the king. None of the others had experienced the pain or the loss of that doomed attempt to reclaim the fabled Khazad-Dûm, none of the others had fought through that terrible, desperate battle at the gates of Moria. Balin’s familiar voice followed his train of thought, describing their defeat and his reckless attempt to avenge his grandfather.

_Thorin stared numbly as the Defiler held his grandfather’s head aloft, his head thrown back in a howl of triumph. Catching sight of the young dwarf prince, the pale orc casually tossed Thrór’s head at him. The once proud, bearded head bounced and rolled along the ground and came to rest at Thorin’s booted feet. The long battle had hardened him to much gore and slaughter, but his grandfather’s pale blue eyes gazing glassily at him in death almost made him lose control of his stomach. But the rage and fury that rose up in him was more than enough to send him charging towards the murderer with a cry of pain and anguish. He had no shield, only his sword, but there was no time to think or collect another. He had to attack now, while the Defiler was still within reach. “Azog!” he roared, managing to build up enough volume, in spite of the roiling in his gut, to be heard over the  tumult of battle._

_Azog appeared startled for a moment - but it was only a moment. His foul mouth twisted in a cruel lear, he smirked at Thorin. “Your turn, princeling,” he taunted as he brandished his mace. It proved to be a fatal mistake. Thorin’s keen eyes noticed the opening the orc had so kindly provided and he threw himself forward. The orc reacted much faster than he had anticipated, though put off balance, and he was forced to scramble backwards to avoid the same fate as his grandsire. His arm slammed into something in the dirt - an oaken branch. The defiler’s sword was already descending towards him. Desperate, Thorin jerked up the log to shield himself. A blow so powerful it jarred his whole body landed on his improvised shield. Time seemed to stand still… and it held. Now it was Thorin’s turn._

_He had only moments to act._

_Thorin ducked beneath the pale-skinned orc’s arm and pivoted. A lesser blade would have been turned aside by the orc’s solid blow, but his sword was of finest dwarf-make and it clove through the thick arm-bone as easily as one would snap a twig. The filth’s entire hand and forearm thudded to the blood-soaked dirt, the coward staggering backwards into the protective ranks of his followers, shrieking with rage and pain. “Die slowly, scum,” he thought, watching as the murder of his grandfather and King dragged himself off to some hole in which to die._

_But that had not been the end. The brave, but foolish, attempt to retake Moria ended in naught but destruction, death and a hollow victory. A victory that was not a victory at all. Many of Erebor’s already depleted people had been slaughtered. Thorin’s brother Frerin, his brother-in-law Ríli, and grandfather had all perished, and Thráin had simply vanished. They returned to Ered Luin, a broken and scattered people. A once-mighty people brought low. “But no longer,” he swore. And so he had set out on this quest - a quest to reclaim a homeland and slay a dragon._

_For he never forgave, and he never forgot._

 

 


End file.
